


become another man again

by Anonymous



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Casual Sex, Hurt Ian Gallagher, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27472933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: [Cowboy AU] Outlaw Mickey has a run in with Deputy Ian but when Ian finds himself in the crosshairs of a local gang, Mickey has to decide where his priorities lie.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 19
Kudos: 131
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeehaw

“So, you got a name?”

Mickey doesn’t bother to hide his sigh at the question. He generally has three criteria for his hook-ups: well-built, well-hung, and silent as the fucking grave, and while the tall redhead pounding into him definitely meets the first two, it’s not looking good for the third.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, gripping the edge of the barrel the guy has him bent over, “it’s Jimmy Mc Mind Your Business.”

That draws a laugh from the redhead at least and when Mickey glances back, the guy has one hand raised in surrender. “Alright, I get it. Just making friendly conversation here.”

He slides in deep as he talks, balls slapping against Mickey’s ass, and Mickey moans in satisfaction even as he mutters, “Not really looking for conversation right now, man.”

“Yeah?” The guy pulls back until he’s almost out of him, the thick head of his cock nudging at Mickey’s hole, and teases, “What is it you’re looking for then?”

Mickey groans, trying to push back onto the guy’s dick but held in place by the strong hands on his hips. “God, fuck you. Don’t make me fucking shoot you.”

The redhead just laughs again, slamming home with full force, and Mickey’s grateful for the noise from the saloon which drowns out most of the sounds he makes as the redhead fucks him hard and fast. It isn’t the most dignified setting — for a guy with Mickey’s tastes, it rarely is — but between the redhead’s enthusiasm and his own pent-up energy after weeks of just his brothers for company, it doesn’t take long to get him the rest of the way there.

He comes with a groan, splattering the wooden barrel beneath him with spunk, and he feels the redhead follow him soon after, hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise as he spills deep into Mickey’s ass. 

Mickey stumbles when the guy withdraws, shivering pleasantly at the stretched-open feeling his own fingers just can’t replicate. He shucks his pants back up over his ass when he hears the jangle of the guy’s belt behind him and rolls his neck, feeling some of the tension leave him for the first time in weeks.

“That was, uh…” the guy says behind him, breathless. “Good conversation.”

Mickey chuckles as he turns to face him. In his eagerness to find a quick fuck, he didn’t get a great look at him earlier but he’s pleased to note that the guy is decent looking, dressed in a too-big shirt with a smattering of sunburnt freckles across his face. There’s a revolver on his hip and a fond look on his face, which Mickey does his best to shut down as soon as possible.

“Nope.”

The redhead tilts his head, confused. “No?”

“No, I’m not from around here, I don’t come here often, and we shouldn’t do this again sometime,” Mickey says. He’s a helpful guy — he doesn’t like people to get the wrong idea. “This is a one and done arrangement, man.”

“Ah.” The guy looks amused, a small smile playing on his lips. “Because you had such a terrible time, right?”

He looks pointedly at the come-stained barrel and Mickey shrugs, knocking his shoulder against the guy as he pushes past him to get to his horse. “Just telling it like it is, pal. I don’t want you pining after me or some shit.”

The redhead’s smile widens and he leans against the side of the saloon as he watches Mickey mount up. (Riding a horse after riding a dick is never the most comfortable experience.) “Right. How will I cope?”

His voice is heavy with sarcasm but Mickey just shrugs. “Not my problem.” He tips the brim of his hat and gives the redhead a wink as he turns his horse around. “Have a nice life, man. Thanks for the fuck.”

—————

Aside from the occasional jerk-off fantasy, Mickey doesn’t think about the redhead at all for the next couple of weeks. His brothers and the rest of the gang make tracks westward for some train robbery Iggy won’t shut up about, but Mickey hangs back, carefully looting his way through a handful of poorly guarded homesteads up in the hills. 

It’s easy money, as far as these things go, but when he wakes up one morning to the sound of footsteps approaching, he starts to think he might not have been careful enough.

“Mickey Milkovich?”

The voice comes from the other side of the boulder Mickey is camping behind and he rubs his eyes as he reaches for his gun. “Who the fuck wants to know?”

He hears the sound of a gun cocking before he can even grab his own and he raises his hands, failing to stifle a yawn even as the panic draws him from sleep.

“Sheriff’s department,” the man says. Twigs crunch beneath his boots as he rounds the corner, repeater aimed squarely at Mickey’s head. “There’s a bounty out-”

He cuts off abruptly and Mickey’s eyes go wide when he finally gets a look at the guy who’s been sent to bring him in. 

“What the fuck.”

The redhead looks just as he remembered, save for the tin star now pinned to his chest and the embarrassed flush covering his cheeks. However, his grip on the gun doesn’t waver as he flashes Mickey a small smile. “If it ain’t Jimmy Mc Mind Your Business.”

Mickey slumps back down, putting a hand over his eyes. “You telling me I fucked the town sheriff?”

“Deputy,” the redhead clarifies. “Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey groans. “Fuckin’ Irish.”

“Sorry, Milkovich,” Gallagher says, unfazed. “There’s a bounty out on you for assault and robbery, so looks like I’m bringing you in. If you give us something on your gang, the sheriff might go easy on you.”

“Do I look like a fucking rat to you?” Mickey says, but he stays still as Gallagher moves in, a length of rope on his hip. “How about I tell the sheriff something else, huh? Like what his upstanding deputy’s been doing behind the saloon after dark?”

Gallagher’s cheeks go pink but he doesn’t take the bait. “On your stomach.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “At least buy me dinner first, asshole.”

“So I can tie you up, idiot.”

“Well, that’s gonna take a lot more than dinner,” Mickey points out but grunts in surprise when Gallagher moves in and flips him roughly onto his front. 

With his face in the dirt and Gallagher’s knee on his back, he doesn’t really have anywhere to go but he lashes out anyway, catching Gallagher’s shin with his heel and drawing a grunt of pain from him as he cinches the rope tight around Mickey’s wrists. 

It isn’t Mickey’s first arrest and he’s pretty certain it won’t be his last, but there’s something particularly irritating about being hauled in by the guy who gave him the best dick he’d had in weeks.

“You arrest all the guys you fuck?” he asks, craning his neck to look at his captor. “Or did I just strike it lucky?”

Gallagher’s weight lifts off his back and Mickey struggles, testing the ropes around his wrists and ankles as Gallagher moves about his tiny camp. 

“I didn’t know who you were,” Gallagher says, almost sheepish. “I wouldn’t have- I didn’t know.”

“You had fun though, right?” Mickey tries. It’s an effort to roll onto his back, and having his weight on his bound arms is more than a little uncomfortable, but he does his best to seem appealing as he looks up at Gallagher. “We can go again if you want? I grab an ankle and you look the other way?”

Gallagher wrinkles his nose. “What? No, I don’t extort sex from prisoners.”

Mickey sighs. “Is it really extortion if I’m offering?”

Gallagher catches his lip between his teeth and for a second Mickey thinks he might be home free, but instead the deputy just scoops up Mickey’s guns and sets them on his horse. “There’s a bounty,” he says, as if Mickey had forgotten. “It’s my job to bring you in.”

“Come on,” Mickey wheedles. “So I robbed a couple of rich fucks up in the hills. It ain’t like they’re short of money.” 

“You broke one guy’s nose,” Gallagher points out, “and threatened to shoot his dick off.”

Mickey can’t keep from laughing at the memory. 

Gallagher just scowls.

“Okay, yeah,” Mickey admits, sobering up, “but I didn’t shoot his dick off. Really you should be congratulating me on my restraint.”

With one hand on his hip, Gallagher looks down at him with a mixture of pity and skepticism. Mickey decides he should probably stop finding the law quite so hot. 

His lingering arousal isn’t helped any by the way Gallagher hauls him up over his shoulder like it’s nothing. With his wrists and ankles bound, Mickey can’t do much more than struggle as Gallagher dumps him over the back of his horse and as he mounts up and begins the long journey back to town, Mickey’s glad he didn’t get chance to eat breakfast — throwing up on Gallagher’s horse wouldn’t have been a great outcome.

“So a lawman, huh?” Mickey says. “You been a bootlicker all your life or is this a recent phase?”

He can’t see Gallagher’s face from his position over the horse but he’s close enough to read the tension in his shoulders as he retorts, “I wanted to help protect people. I’ve seen the harm outlaws can do.”

There’s something buried in his words and Mickey frowns as he tries to piece it together. While he doesn’t know anything about the town or its lawmen, the name Gallagher is familiar and he wracks his brain for context.

“Wait…” He can’t hide his laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those Gallaghers? The scumbags that run the docks out east?”

Gallagher — _Ian_ — flinches and lies, “No relation, sorry.”

Mickey laughs again. “Bullshit. What happened, _deputy_? You get sick of controlling the flow of weapons and contraband across half the country? Was being a crimelord not all you hoped?”

“Fuck you,” Ian says through gritted teeth. “You don’t know shit about me.”

“Maybe I want to,” Mickey says, with a level of honesty that surprises even him. “Son of a kingpin turns lawman — that’s got to be one hell of a story.” He grunts as the horse clatters over uneven ground. “Plus there’s the fact that you fuck like a goddamn piston engine and you spend your evenings dicking men. Call me interested.”

“What about you?” Ian retorts. “Everyone’s heard of the Milkovich gang in these parts. Word has it you’re all ruthless bastards yet you’re out here running solo and robbing folks without firing a shot. Sounds like you got a story too.”

Mickey shrugs as best he can. “Don’t get your hopes up, man. I’m still with the family — a man just needs some space once in a while.”

“And some sex?”

He laughs. “Yeah, that too. Everyone needs to let off steam, right?” 

Ian falls silent for a second and Mickey tries a different approach, “Speaking of the family, you know they’re gonna come for me, right?”

Ian nods. “I know. But the sheriff can protect you.”

“Protect me?” he repeats, incredulous. “I’m not the one who needs protecting here, pal. When my brothers roll through town, it’s going to be bloody. Like, string you all up in front of the jailhouse bloody. You sure I’m worth all that trouble, deputy?”

The silence he gets in response stretches on until Ian finally speaks, “I need to bring you in.” 

He doesn’t sound convinced and Mickey pushes harder, “Trust me, Gallagher, a couple of assault and robbery charges ain’t worth dying over.”

“Maybe they’ll just leave you there,” Ian says, with more hope than confidence. “You’re the one who got caught, after all.”

“You don’t know the Milkovich gang that well, huh, deputy?” Mickey says. “Yeah, my pa will probably kick my ass later but he’ll be damned if he lets the law do it for him.”

The horse slows to a canter and Mickey perks up. “Is that you changing your mind, Gallagher?”

“Shut up,” Ian says sharply, gun drawn. “I heard…”

Mickey hears it too then, the whistle of a train in the distance, soon drowned out by gunshots. They’re too far south for it to be the train his brothers were working on and he looks up at Ian hopefully. “Sounds like someone could use a hand.”

Ian hesitates, looking between the train and Mickey, and Mickey presses his advantage, “You’ll get there quicker without me to slow you down. All those rich folk on that train — I bet they’ll be real happy to see a deputy show up to save them. Way more so than the people in the homesteads in the hills-”

He’s cut off with a garbled yelp when Ian shoves him off the horse. He drops hard into the dirt, wincing when the impact jars his hip and shoulder, and he looks up, indignant, “Hey!”

“Stay here,” Ian calls. He at least has the courtesy to toss Mickey’s guns into the grass next to him before he rides off in the direction of the train. “I’ll come back for you soon!”

“At least untie me, you fucker!” Mickey shouts back. 

He wriggles, pulling on the ropes, but slumps back in the grass when Ian canters off with a last yell, “Sorry!”

“Motherfucker,” Mickey grouses. 

It’s uncomfortable to arch to reach his boot but he smiles when his fingers close around the handle of his knife. Sure, it’s not his smoothest escape attempt but as he gets to work sawing through the ropes, freedom is preferable to dignity.

—————

Mickey spends the next ten days laying low.

He heads back to base to show his face and make his contributions to the gang’s income. Judging by the amount of liquor flowing, his brothers’ train heist was a success but other than offering congratulations, Mickey doesn’t look for any involvement in their next caper. 

He does slip fifty bucks from their takings when no-one’s looking, however, and when he’s confident the heat has died down enough, he ducks into the nearest station to pay off his bounty. 

With the law officially (hopefully) off his tail, he circles back round to town one evening. 

He isn’t sure exactly what he’s hoping for — some evenings he’s jerked off to the thought of a repeat performance with Ian behind the saloon and some days he’s fantasized about tying the deputy up and dumping him in the woods as payback. 

By the time he arrives in town, his plans are some amalgmation of the two — sex then dumping, or maybe dumping then sex — but he’s disappointed when he scans the saloon both inside and out with no sign of Deputy Gallagher.

Which is how he finds himself at the sheriff’s office after sunset, doing his best to look like a helpful citizen rather than a known outlaw.

The sheriff, a burly man with a thick greying mustache, is half-asleep when Mickey shoves the door open, but he stumbles to his feet as he wipes drool from the corner of his mouth, “What the-” He coughs. “What’s the problem, son?”

“No problem,” Mickey says, hands raised. “Sorry to disturb your nap, Sheriff. I’m just in town looking for one of your deputies. He helped me out a while back and I wanted to pass on my thanks.”

The sheriff frowns, bushy brows knitting together, but he buys the lie. “Ah, well, that’s good. I’m glad my boys could be of help. Who’re you looking for?”

“Deputy Gallagher?” Mickey says. “Tall kid, bright red hair?”

“Ah.” There’s something in his tone Mickey can’t read as the sheriff sinks back to a seat. “Sorry to tell you this, son, but Deputy Gallagher passed away over a week back. Real shame.”

Mickey’s heart drops to his shoes. “H-He’s dead? Who the fuck-” He stops himself, picks more civilian-appropriate language. “What happened to him?”

“Train robbery,” the sheriff says. “The O’Malley gang. From what the passengers said, Gallagher tried to intervene but…” He shakes his head sadly. “Well, it was a dozen to one.”

Mickey’s stomach rolls. The Milkovich reputation for violence is well known but it pales in comparison to the O’Malley gang’s reputation for cruelty. “They shot him?”

The sheriff’s eyes dart to the side for a second before he nods. “I’m sure they did in the end.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. He didn’t survive this long as a Milkovich without having a finely tuned sense for weakness. “In the end?”

The sheriff fidgets. “The O’Malleys aren’t known for making it quick, son.”

“Yeah, but you picked up his body after, right?” Mickey presses. “You might not be a doctor but I’m guessing it’s pretty easy to tell if a bullet killed him.”

“We, uh- We checked the site of the robbery,” the sheriff says. “We didn’t find a body.”

Resisting the urge to draw his gun, Mickey steps forward. “Then how the fuck do you know he’s dead? They send a message or something?”

“We got witnesses say the O’Malleys knocked him out and took him with them when they ran,” the sheriff admits. “That was over a week ago — there’s no way he’s still alive. They, uh, don’t take kindly to the law.”

He jumps when Mickey thumps his hands down on his desk. “Did you check? Did you cowardly fucks even go looking for him?”

A bead of sweat trickles down the sheriff’s face and he tugs nervously at his collar. “Listen, young man, I don’t appreciate your tone. I’ll have you know I value the work my deputies do but we’re a small team here. I’m not going to put my men in harm’s way like that.”

“Oh, of course not,” Mickey says. His voice is low and dangerous, his anger barely contained as he paces around the desk to get in the sheriff’s space, cracking his knuckles as he stands over him. “Wouldn’t want your men to fall into the hands of assholes like the O’Malley gang, right? I mean, god knows what they’d do to them.”

The sheriff gulps. “Look, son, I don’t know how well you know Gallagher but he ain’t like the rest of us round here. My deputies are honorable men, come from good families. Gallagher, he worked hard, but he didn’t belong here. I’m sorry for what happened to him but you know how that saying goes — there’s no use throwing good money after bad-”

Mickey’s fist slams into his face before he can finish. 

The sheriff wheezes, holding one meaty hand to his busted lip, and he yelps in fear when Mickey grabs him by the collar. 

“Here’s how this is gonna work, you dumb fuck,” Mickey says through gritted teeth, “you’re gonna tell me where the O’Malleys took Gallagher. If I get out there and he’s dead, I’ll come right back and put a bullet in your head. I get out there and he’s not dead, I’ll still come back with that bullet but I might consider aiming for somewhere less lethal.” He gives the sheriff a sharp slap on the cheek. “You with me, chuckles?”

The sheriff nods, his beady eyes wide with fear, and stammers, “They- they move around a lot. Last I heard they were out near Silverton Ridge. Please-”

Mickey lets go, shoving him back into his chair with a noise of frustration, and storms out of the office before he can give into the urge to blow the sheriff’s brains out. 

His horse comes when he whistles and he takes a quick swig of whisky before setting off at full gallop for Silverton Ridge. 

He’s under no illusions that Gallagher’s likely to be in rough shape after a week and a half in captivity, especially in the hands of those maniacs, but as he heads out, Mickey just hopes the deputy is still alive.


	2. Chapter 2

When Mickey arrives at Silverton Ridge to find four guns trained on him, he figures he’s in the right place.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The voice comes from the trees to his left and Mickey keeps his hands raised as he looks over to see a short sweaty guy emerge with a shotgun pointed in his direction.

“O’Malleys, right?” Mickey asks. “I heard you had some merchandise from a train that needed moving.”

Sweaty guy narrows his eyes. “Heard from where?”

“Your mother when I was puttin’ it to her last night,” Mickey says. “You gonna show me the goods or not, shortstack? I got places to be.”

For a second, he thinks the guy is going to shoot him but he’s interrupted by another voice to his left. “Through here.”

The second guy — crow’s feet, olive skin — steps out of the shadows, taking Mickey’s horse by the reins, and Mickey dismounts to follow him forward into the O’Malley camp.

“You’re gonna want to watch your mouth around here,” the guy says. “The boys don’t take real kindly to strangers.”

“Well, I don’t take real kindly to having a gun pointed at me when I’m just here to do some business,” Mickey mutters. He scans the camp as they move forward, scoping out the tall rock wall to the north, the scattering of tents and shacks, and the outlooks stationed through the sparse trees. “God knows how you fuckers ever fence your stolen shit if this is how you react every time you get a visitor.”

The man chuckles. “Fences like money,” he points out, “and we have a lot of shit that’s stolen.”

There’s no sign of the missing deputy anywhere and aside from a couple of prostitutes sleeping by the fire, everyone in the camp seems to be a fully paid up member of the O’Malley gang. It took Mickey a few hours to get there, so it’s late enough that most of the crew are asleep or half-cut on moonshine, but apparently there’s still an appetite for business as his guide leads him through to the heart of the camp.

There’s a tall guy waiting there, well-dressed but portly enough that his gut strains the shiny buttons of his waistcoat. However, Mickey’s gaze goes straight past him to the figure kneeling at the edge of the clearing.

For a long moment, he thinks he’s looking at a corpse. Ian’s not moving, bound to the tree and kept upright by the rope holding his wrists above his head. In the dim light of the fire, his skin looks almost grey, his cheeks hollow and his body littered with bruises, but he jerks awake with a whimper when one of the O’Malleys tosses a cup of water in his face. 

A couple of the gang close in, their drunken laughter audible from where Mickey’s standing, and he has to fight to keep his expression neutral when one of them grips Ian’s hair, forcing his face up until it catches the light of the fire. 

“What’s the matter, kid?” the guy slurs. “Not thirsty?”

The purpling bruises on Ian’s face look almost black in the dim light and Mickey doesn’t miss the fear in his eyes as he tries to pull away from his captors.

“Aww, come on, boy,” the second guy says, kicking Ian in the thigh. “I remember you begging us for water the other day. We’re just here to help you out.”

Mickey can only watch as the man grips Ian’s jaw with one hand and raises his canteen in the other. 

“No, no-” Ian shakes his head, protesting as much as he can, but there’s nothing he can do when the man forces his mouth open and pours the canteen over him. 

Ian coughs, swallowing down as much water as he can but choking on the rest, and Mickey’s on the verge of abandoning his cover and just shooting the assholes in the head when the guy finally releases him. 

Ian sags in his restraints, shivering and spluttering as he coughs up lungfuls of water, and Mickey lets out a low whistle as he says to his guide, “What’d the poor asshole do to deserve that?”

The guide spits on the ground. “Nothin’ personal. That’s just what happens to the law in these parts. Right this way.”

Mickey falls into step again as the man leads him up to where the tall guy is standing by a ledger. “Boss, we got a fence. Says he came about the train cargo.”

The tall guy glances over, clearly suspicious, and Mickey nods by way of greetings. “Mick Rush, visiting from upstate. I heard about the train and I figured I might as well do some business while I’m in town.”

“Patrick O’Malley,” the tall guy says, but doesn’t extend his hand. “Can’t say I’ve heard of you, Mr Rush.”

Mickey’s smile is all teeth. “Guess I’m doing my job right then.” He has no idea what they stole from the train and even less of an idea how to fence any of it but this was the quickest (and only) way inside their camp, short of getting captured himself. 

“Look,” he says, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops, “I’m sure you’ve got guys who can move this stuff but anything really hot? That’s where I can come in. I’m heading back up north tomorrow — you offload some cargo with me and it’ll be six counties away before the law ever comes sniffing around.”

O’Malley eyes him, tempted but still unconvinced, and Mickey sighs. “You want a sign of good faith? Fine.” 

He peels a handful of bills out of his wallet and holds them up with two fingers. “I keep most of my funds stashed nearby but I’ve got a handful on me. Let me take something off your hands now, for a fair price. Once you’re happy I’m not about to double-cross you, I’ll swing by with the wagon in the morning to clear out whatever else you need.”

O’Malley and the guide exchange looks. Mickey braces for a gun to the head or a knife in the back but O’Malley just steps forward, pulling some papers out from inside his waistcoat. “You know what these are?”

“Bonds,” Mickey says easily. “Not easy to shift, not when people know they’re missing.”

“Can you move them?”

Mickey flashes him a sharp smile. “In my sleep.” He holds out the bills. “I’ll even give you face value for ‘em.”

O’Malley blinks, impressed, but as expected, he takes the money, passing Mickey the bonds in exchange. 

There’s no way Mickey can move them — they’re getting dumped in the nearest river as soon as he gets out of here — but he takes them anyway, sliding them inside his jacket and giving O’Malley a quick salute. “Good doing business with you, man. Always heard you Irish were reasonable.”

O’Malley laughs, taking a swig from a bottle of rum and offering it to Mickey. “We ain’t been accused of that too often.” Mickey doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart over to Ian when he says, “Guess it depends on who we’re dealing with.”

The rum is sweet and smooth as it goes down. His guide moves away, slipping into conversation with one of the men who was tormenting Ian earlier, and Mickey leans in closer to O’Malley as he says, “I bet. I couldn’t help notice your guest over there.”

O’Malley chuckles, settling on a sturdy chest as he lights a cigarette. “Let’s just say the train robbery came with a bonus.”

Leaning against a tree, Mickey pulls out a smoke of his own and tries to keep his tone casual. “Y’know, if you’re looking to offload something else, I’d be happy to cut you a deal.”

“Him?” O’Malley asks, barking out a laugh. “He’s a bag of fuckin’ bones by now — you’ll be lucky if he isn’t dead by morning.”

“It’s not like I’m in this for the long haul,” Mickey points out. “You know how fences work, man. We don’t keep anything around for long.” 

He eyes Ian again, watching him struggle to stay conscious as the ropes dig into his bruised wrists, and he lies, “Took me a while to get out here. I’m just looking for a way to pass the time until morning.” He gives O’Malley a wink. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure no-one finds the body when I’m finished.”

O’Malley laughs, shaking his head. “You’re a sick fuck, Rush.”

“That a yes?” Mickey asks, tapping his wallet. “Doesn’t look like you’re going to get a better deal for him, unless the morgue’s started offering cash all of a sudden.”

“Tempting,” O’Malley says, blowing smoke into the night air, “but I’m attached to him now.” He stands, strolling over to Ian, and Mickey flinches when he backhands Ian hard across the face. “Isn’t that right, deputy?”

Ian sways, dazed from the blow, and Mickey prays he has it together enough not to blow his cover as he moves up to stand alongside O’Malley. 

Ian blinks up at him, bruised mouth parting in an little ‘o’ of confusion, but that soon turns to a cry of pain when O’Malley stubs his cigarette out on Ian’s collarbone. He sobs, trying to pull away, but between the ropes and his obvious exhaustion, he’s got nowhere to go. 

“Please,” Ian says weakly, looking up at O’Malley. “Please don’t-”

He gets another backhand for his efforts, his head snapping to the side, and Mickey balls his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching out to help him as O’Malley crouches down in front of him.

“Something you should know about me, Rush,” O’Malley says, and it takes Mickey a second to remember his alias, “I like to finish what I start. Me and the boys have had some real fun with this one but I’ll be damned if anyone but me gets the satisfaction of finally squeezing the life out of him.”

He cups Ian’s jaw with feigned tenderness and despite everything, Mickey’s relieved to see the look of defiance in Ian’s eyes as he’s forced to face O’Malley. 

“I’m thinking of sending his head back to the sheriff,” O’Malley says, like he’s just making conversation. “The old prick’s too much of a coward to challenge us but it feels polite to give him a reminder of what I’ll do to any lawman who gets in my way. What do you think?”

“It’s a classic,” Mickey agrees, watching Ian close his eyes in terrified anticipation. “Kind of overplayed though. The number of stories I’ve heard about big menacing gang leaders ‘sending a message’.” He rolls his eyes. “A little more creativity might be nice.

With one last slap to Ian’s cheek, O’Malley stands back up and lights another smoke. “Ah, maybe you’re right.” He ruffles Ian’s hair. “You hang in there ’til morning, boy. I’ll think of something ‘creative’ to do with you by then.”

“I’ll let you get to thinking,” Mickey says, holding out a hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, O’Malley. I’ll bring the wagon by at dawn.”

“Noon,” O’Malley says, patting him on the shoulder. “Give me a chance to sleep this off.”

“Noon it is,” Mickey says with a grin. “Have a good night, man.”

The camp’s even quieter when he picks his way out, the last of the drunks slowly crawling into bed, and Mickey exhales in relief when he makes it out past the perimeter. As reconaissance missions go, that wasn’t his worst attempt — he’s still alive and more importantly, so is Ian. 

Getting him out is a separate challenge but as Mickey mounts up and begins to circle around to the hills behind the camp, it feels more possible than it probably should.

—————

The one advantage to growing up with a drunk asshole like Terry Milkovich as a father is that Mickey’s damn good at moving quietly when he needs to.

He waits until the first tinge of dawn is visible over the fields, when even the most hardened O’Malleys will be passed out cold, and then takes a slow route into the back of the camp. Two of the guys on watch are fast asleep and the third is easily dispatched with a knife in the throat, giving Mickey a clear shot towards Patrick O’Malley’s tent and, more importantly, Ian.

Ian looks even worse than he did when Mickey left him, pale, exhausted and sleeping as best he can with his wrists still tied, and Mickey prays that he’s not too late when he slips up behind him and clamps a hand over Ian’s mouth.

Ian starts awake, letting out a muffled cry, but Mickey just clamps down tighter as he whispers, “Easy, Gallagher. It’s me.”

Ian goes still but whispers when Mickey takes his hand away, “Milkovich?” 

“The one and only,” Mickey mutters, hacking away at the rope between Ian’s ankles with his knife. “Well, not the _one_ , I guess, I got a shitload of brothers.” 

He slices the rope around Ian’s wrists and watches for any movement from O’Malley when Ian drops forward with a stifled cry of agony, holding his aching arms to his chest. Mickey rests a hand on his shoulder in silent support, noting the rips in the back of his undershirt and the blood staining the skin beneath, and squeezes gently as he whispers, “We gotta go, Gallagher.”

Ian nods, looking dumbstruck as he glances over at Mickey, and Mickey rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna protest at getting rescued by an outlaw?”

That draws a smile, albeit a weak one, and Ian shakes his head. “No, no protest, I just- I didn’t think-” He shakes his head again, as though shedding the thought. “Questions later, right?”

“Glad you’re finally with the program, Gallagher.” 

Mickey looks him over afresh, noting just how thin he looks beneath his torn clothes. “Can you walk?”

Despite Ian’s nod, it clearly takes an effort for him to pull himself upright, clutching onto the tree for balance as his knees buckle beneath him.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Mickey says, and before Ian can argue, he crouches down to haul him into place over his shoulder.

“What-”

“Shhh,” Mickey orders. “Just stay still. You can do your baby deer impression when we get out of here.”

“I’m not a fucking baby deer,” Ian grumbles, but he doesn’t struggle as Mickey carries him back out the way they came. 

The O’Malleys begin to stir just as they reach the perimeter, and Mickey pauses behind a rock for cover as he sets Ian down. “We just need to make sure they don’t come after us.”

Ian nods. The bruises on his face are even worse up close, purples and blues and browns layered over each other from ten days of beatings, and Mickey’s chest tightens in anger even as he reaches into his pack.

“What’s the plan?” Ian whispers. “You got a way to cover our tracks?”

Mickey grins as he strikes a match. “Something like that.”

The dynamite ignites with a hiss that’s almost as satisfying as the wide-eyed look of disbelief on Ian’s face. “Explosives? What-”

“Eat shit, fuckheads!” Mickey bellows across the O’Malley camp as he tosses stick after stick over the rock. 

There’s a split-second moment of quiet, and then a deafening bang rips through the ridge, loud enough to make the ground shake beneath them. It’s followed by another, and another, and another, and Mickey risks a peak over the rock to see limp bodies thrown through the air as the surviving O’Malleys yell in terror and scramble for cover. 

There’s no real safety to be found, not with how much dynamite Mickey packed, and he laughs in delight when he sees Patrick O’Malley’s tent go up in flames.

Beside him, Ian is stunned silent and Mickey holds out the last stick with a wink. “Come on, Gallagher. You can’t tell me they don’t deserve it.”

Ian hesitates for a second but Mickey’s grin widens when he takes the dynamite, lighting it with ease and throwing it directly at the few tents still standing. “Attaboy.”

More screams follow, rising up into the morning sunlight, and Mickey claps Ian on the shoulder. “That’s our cue, Gallagher. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

—————

They make it about an hour north-west at a fair pace before Mickey’s horse starts to protest.

Judging by the solid weight of Ian’s body slumped against his back, the horse isn’t the only one who’s exhausted, but Mickey urges it on for another few minutes until they reach the shade of a creek. They rode through enough streams and fields that he doubts the O’Malleys would be able to follow them, if any of them are even still alive, but the creek itself is easy to defend if they were followed. 

Mickey knows the area well enough, having spent dozens of afternoons hiding out here as a kid, but he shakes off the nostalgia as he hops down from the horse and checks on his cargo.

Ian is barely conscious, toppling forward in the saddle as soon as Mickey vacates it, and Mickey holds up an arm to steady him. “C’mon, deputy. Don’t die on me now that we’re in the clear.”

“I’m not dyin’,” Ian mutters but he’s pale enough that it’s not very convincing.

Nonetheless, he lets Mickey help him down from the horse, barely managing to stay upright when he hits solid ground, and Mickey looks him over with concern. “I was gonna say you should clean up but not if you’re just gonna drown yourself by accident.”

“M’okay,” Ian says. “I-” He swallows, looking pitiful. “I hate to ask but you got any food?”

Mickey could kick himself for not thinking of that sooner. Leaving Ian propped against a tree for support, he goes digging in his saddle bag and returns with a handful of jerky and some canned peaches. “This do?”

Ian doesn’t bother to speak, just tears into the jerky like he’s starving, and Mickey watches with sympathy. “Guess the O’Malleys weren’t great hosts, huh?”

“I thought they just wanted me weak at first, y’know?” Ian says, letting out a soft moan at the taste of food. “But then it was like a game to them. Get me to beg for it and then take it away.” He closes his eyes. “God, I never thought I’d be so happy to see cheap jerky.”

“Don’t eat too fast,” Mickey warns. “You’re just gonna puke it up. The peaches’ll still be here after you’ve cleaned up.”

There’s a reluctance to his nod but Ian sets the can down, chewing through the last of the jerky as he makes his way towards the creek. It’s closer to a pond at this point, opening up back against the hillside, and Mickey settles on a rock to watch as Ian wades in to the cold water with a sigh of relief, still fully dressed.

“You know you can take your clothes off,” Mickey calls after him. “I promise not to jump you ’til you’re stable again.”

Ian dips below the surface for a second, scrubbing his hands through his hair to get rid of some of the grime that’s gathered, but far from stripping down, he lingers by a rock as he fiddles with the rope around his wrists. They’re no longer bound together but the rope’s still tied in place around each arm and Mickey whistles when he watches Ian tug ineffectually at it with his teeth.

“C’mere,” he calls, “let me help with that.”

They meet halfway, Ian waist-deep in water and Mickey crouched at the creek’s edge. The water’s only made the ropes tighter and Mickey winces at the sight of the welts beneath. 

“Fair warning, this is going to suck.”

Ian flinches when Mickey pulls out his knife but he lets out a sharp, pained gasp when Mickey saws through the rope enough for him to pull the rope free. His wrists are a wreck, the skin bloodied and raw from days of confinement, and Mickey itches to offer some kind of comfort when Ian dips down to soak his arms in the water again. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” The brief response is the best he can manage as he backs off, nodding to Ian’s torn clothes. “I got a change of clothes on the horse if you want? Nothing fancy but I think those might be beyond saving at this point.”

There’s surprised gratitude on Ian’s face as he looks up at him. “Thanks, Milkovich.”

“You can call me Mickey,” he points out as he heads back to raid the saddlebags. “Y’know, if you want. Milkovich is fine though.”

The spare clothes are worn but comfortable, and Mickey grabs a bottle of rum too as he picks his way back over to a seat on the rocks. Judging by the wet pile of fabric on the creek’s edge, Ian’s shed his previous clothes and Mickey looks him over in the early-morning sunlight as he washes the rest of the dirt and blood off his body.

Even freshly washed, he’s a mess. The bruises are what catch Mickey’s eyes first, ugly purple splotches curling over Ian’s ribs and shoulders, but every time he blinks, it feels like he spots some new injury. There are livid marks around his throat, like someone choked him with a hand or a rope (or, most likely, both), and from the burns peppering his torso, last night wasn’t the first time O’Malley used him to stub out his smokes. 

When Ian turns away, Mickey can just make out a couple of long slices across his back, still bleeding sluggishly, and he winces in sympathy when he asks, “Those from a machete or something?”

Ian glances over his shoulder, like he’d forgotten the wounds were there. “Just a bullwhip,” he says with a little shrug, “thankfully.”

Mickey takes a long swig of rum. “You seem pretty relaxed about all this, Gallagher. You get kidnapped and tortured a lot?”

Ian shakes his head, bobbing closer through the water. “I spent the last ten days certain I wouldn’t see the next sunrise. I can live with a few cuts and bruises.”

Any hint of a smile fades as he looks up at Mickey. “Why’d you save me, Milkovich? I heard you talking to O’Malley last night — I’m really hoping you’re not actually here to kill me and dump my body.”

Mickey bites down on the joke that rises in response — he’s pretty sure this isn’t the time to be teasing him about potential murder — and settles on a shrug instead. “I was in town looking for some payback for you kicking me off your horse in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere, and I heard you’d gone missing. That fucking sheriff wasn’t doing jackshit to help you so I figured I’d stop by.”

Ian frowns at that, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. “Sheriff Dawes? Could he not find me?”

“No, he could find you,” Mickey says bitterly. “Pointed me right at you. He just didn’t want to risk his own hide to help a Gallagher.”

“Oh.” He tries to hide it but Mickey doesn’t miss the look of stunned devastation on Ian’s face as he turns away. “I- I guess that makes sense.”

“Don’t make any fuckin’ sense to me,” Mickey mutters. “What kind of fucking pussy leaves one of his own alone with those animals?”

Ian doesn’t answer, won’t even look at Mickey, and Mickey calls after him as he swims over to the other side of the creek. “You okay there, Gallagher?” 

No response and Mickey calls again, “Ian?”

“I’m fine,” Ian says quietly. 

Even across the creek, Mickey can see the lines of his ribs beneath his skin and he sighs as he clambers off the rock and shucks off his own shirt and pants. The water is freezing, enough that Mickey can’t be held responsible for the string of curses he lets out as he wades in up to his waist, and he shivers as he wades across to Ian.

“You wanna talk to me, Gallagher?” he asks. “‘Cause if you’re looking for someone to help you shoot the sheriff in his thick fuckin’ head, I’m your guy.”

Ian turns around at that, eyes reddened, and he gives Mickey a watery smile. “Can always count on a Milkovich to put a bullet in a lawman, right?”

“Maybe not every lawman.” He grins. “Although I’m sure I can come up with something to put in you if you play your cards right.”

Ian groans, covering his face with his hand, but there’s no hiding his laughter as he splashes water in Mickey’s direction. “Really, Mickey?”

“I’m just calling it like it is,” Mickey says, unabashed. “I didn’t risk my neck hauling your ass out of there because I got a sudden respect for the law.”

“So you hauled my ass out of there because you want a fuck?” Ian asks in amused disbelief. “You never heard of a brothel before, Milkovich? I’m pretty sure every whore west of the Mississippi is in better shape than I am right now.”

Mickey moves in closer, gaze lingering on the bruising around Ian’s neck. “They really worked you over, huh?”

Ian flinches but doesn’t pull away when Mickey cups his jaw, tilting his head up into the sunlight to look at the deep bruises over his cheek and temple. 

“I was outnumbered,” he says, voice barely audible above the whisper of the wind. “I thought they wanted information at first but they tied me to that tree and just… took their time?” His gaze goes distant, looking past Mickey as though he’s not even there. “They wouldn’t let me eat, or drink, or even fucking sleep. It felt like every time they were bored or drunk, they’d beat me or burn me or-” 

He shakes his head, coming back to himself, but his face is still ashen when he says, “I thought I could just hold on, until the sheriff came with back-up, but that whole time… He was never coming, was he? God, if you hadn’t-”

His voice breaks and despite Mickey’s better judgment, he finds himself closing the gap between them to pull Ian into a rough hug. 

Ian sinks into the hug, burying his face in Mickey’s shoulder as shivers wrack his too-thin frame, and Mickey strokes through his wet hair as he murmurs, “It’s okay. I got there, didn’t I? You’re safe now, and we blew those assholes to kingdom fuckin’ come.”

Ian smiles at that, pulling back enough to swipe the tears from his eyes, but before Mickey can offer any further reassurance, Ian’s lips are pressed against his.

He lets out a muffled noise of surprise at the contact but can’t bring himself to pull away as Ian tilts his head, his tongue slipping past his lips to curl against Mickey’s. His lips are cold from the water but his mouth is all warmth and despite himself, Mickey leans into it gladly as he kisses him back.

Ian’s cheeks are pink when he breaks away and Mickey’s pretty sure his own cheek match when he steps back, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I, uh- I ain’t exactly the kissin’ type, man.”

Ian raises his eyebrows, a small smile on his lips. “So you’ll ride for hours and risk your life to rescue a guy, but you won’t kiss him afterwards? That’s a strange type, Milkovich.”

MIckey splashes him again. “Real funny, Gallagher. Guess they didn’t starve that shitty sense of humor out of you.”

Ian flips him off, crouching down to wet his hair in the water again, and Mickey pushes back out to float in the middle of the creek. He’s exhausted, his adrenaline fading after the night of excitement, but he can’t ignore the new warmth in his chest instead of just the bone-deep tiredness.

“I don’t know about you,” he says, yawning, “but I need some fuckin’ sleep.”

Ian tilts his head. “You want me to go?”

“No, I don’t want you to fucking go,” Mickey grouses. “What, you’re already taking off just because I need a fuckin’ nap?”

Ian laughs, swimming over to the stack of fresh clothes as he calls over his shoulder, “Christ, you’re like a grumpy toddler.”

In the absence of a towel, Ian shakes his hair dry as he clambers out onto the rock and Mickey watches with distant appreciation. He’s just as tall and well-hung as Mickey remembers but he’s far skinnier than he should be after days of starvation, and the sight of the injuries covering his body from eyebrow to ankle brings Mickey’s half-hearted libido under control. 

He follows him out, scrubbing himself dry with an old cloth and tugging on his undershirt and boxers. He can feel Ian’s eyes on him as he goes and makes a point of bending over to give him a good view of his ass as he says, “You’re gonna need to keep it in your pants for a few hours there, Gallagher. A man needs his rest.”

“I’ll try to restrain myself,” Ian says, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

When Mickey turns back around, it’s to find the bedroll laid out behind one of the rocks and Ian already sprawled out on half the blanket. 

As tired as he is (and as rough as Ian looks), he can’t help the twinge of arousal that stirs at the sight but he tamps it down as he strolls over. “You’re stealing my bedroll now?”

Ian yawns, apparently comfortable enough in Mickey’s clothes and on Mickey’s blankets. “I’ll buy my own when we reach town.”

“Yeah?” Mickey asks. He doesn’t miss the ‘we’ in that sentence but doesn’t complain either as he stretches out beside him. “With what money, hotshot? Don’t tell me you’re going back to work for that shitty-ass sheriff.”

“No,” Ian says firmly, “but there are other towns around. Some of them might be hiring for deputies.”

Mickey makes a noise of skepticism, turning onto his side, and he tries to hide his smile when he feels the warmth of Ian’s body curl at his back. “Yeah, that’s great,” he says around a yawn. “Can’t wait for you to hogtie me again. Maybe you can drop me in a swamp this time, just for variety.”

Ian’s laugh rumbles through him and Mickey elbows him gently when he kisses the back of his neck. “You’re a criminal,” he points out. “I was doing my job.”

“Your job sucks.”

“Yeah.” Ian’s quiet for a moment, his breath warm on the back of Mickey’s neck. “I guess there’s always bounties to pick up?” Then, before Mickey can interject, “Not on you, Milkovich. Other people’s bounties. Could maybe make a decent living like that.”

Worn out from the day’s exertions and lulled to sleep by the comforting presence of Ian’s body behind him, Mickey can only muster a shrug. “I could live with bounties. There are some real assholes out there.”

He feels Ian smile behind him, dropping another kiss against the back of Mickey’s head. “Guess we’d make a decent team then.”

Mickey loses his battle to stay awake before he can ask him what the fuck he means, but as he drifts off into well-earned sleep, he finds he doesn’t _totally_ hate the idea.


End file.
